


Sing Along To The Song Of Battle In Our Bones

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hotel Valhalla, Demigod AU, Einherjar AU, F/F, Reckless Gay Bean and Death Gay Bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25199809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: This close, Raelle can see each individual fleck of Scylla’s intensely blue eyes, can even almost count her eyelashes. She can see each flaw in her sculpted face, which is to say, there is no flaw at all.Scylla is too beautiful, Raelle’s heartachesjust looking at her.Alternatively:Hotel Valhalla AU [Magnus Chase]
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	Sing Along To The Song Of Battle In Our Bones

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Merely a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

— _cherish and adore what has been won_

_like the waves spilling over distant shorelines_

_desperate to kiss the moon._

****

“The truth is,” Scylla says, her eyes trained on the barely human form on its knees before them, “that fate is neither good nor evil. It is how we choose to respond to it that determines whether we fall in the light or in the shadows. The choice, in the end, lies in our hearts.”

The man—trickster, beast, _god_ —laughs, bitter and harsh. It grates against Raelle’s ears, like the scathing insults Ratatosk hurls every day as he runs up and down Yggdrasil. “They’ve poisoned your mind, I see. Just as they did to all your siblings.”

“You’re wrong.” Scylla crosses her arms, palms forward, and he flinches. “You’ve done that yourself, and you only have yourself to blame.” With that, Raelle watches in awe as circles of runes begin to glow from Scylla’s palms, and green light erupts from the ground, trapping the man in bright writhing chains.

“You’ll regret this!” He sounds desperate and scared, beneath the bravado. Raelle doesn’t feel sorry for him in the least.

“No.” Scylla’s voice is calm. “I don’t think I will. Goodbye, Father.”

There’s a pop, and the cage of green light shrinks until it’s the size of a pebble. Scylla swipes her hands, expelling a gust of wind.

The cage disappears, and Loki is no more. 

****

— _linger not on what was nor will be_

_to follow the path of what is, beloved_

_and carry me in your heart._

****

“You’ve done well.” Frey brushes stray hair off Raelle’s cheek. “I am proud of you.”

Raelle feels his sincerity leak between the syllables. His warmth is as familiar to her as the sun, even though this is the first time she’s met him face to face. “It was nothing.”

“‘Nothing’?” Frey chuckles, a low sound full of the verve of summer. “Successfully delaying Ragnarok is nothing?”

She shrugs. “Exactly. It’s just delaying—not _stopping_. It will _still_ come.”

“Of course it will,” Frey agrees, easily, “but that doesn’t mean delaying it is nothing. On the contrary, it is _everything_.” He smiles at her, and she feels the tender force of his affection. This is Frey, the one responsible for each flower blooming, for crops growing, for the earth coming alive. This is Frey, _her father_ , and he is smiling at her as if she is worth all that. “Ragnarok will arrive as surely as I bring sunshine, Raelle. We cannot change that. But that doesn’t mean we shall just stand back.”

She frowns. “Is it not just prolonging the agony of waiting, then?”

“Perhaps.” He stares at her, and his eyes look so much like the ones she sees in the mirror every morning. She supposes it should be unnerving, but instead she feels at peace. _This is her father_ , and his eyes are her eyes. “But that’s it, isn’t it? You call it ‘prolonging the agony.’ Personally, I think of it as ‘extending happiness.’”

Raelle can’t help it; she snorts. “That’s a very optimistic way of looking at it.”

“Well, I am feeling very optimistic,” he says so dryly that Raelle gives a sharp laugh.

“It comes with the territory, I’d imagine.”

“Freya says it’s just meant to be. She reckons she won’t be nearly as effective on my post.”

She thinks of her aunt, of her vivacity and wide grins. But as spirited as she is, Raelle can’t see her as anything but the goddess of love, the same way she can’t see Frey as anything but the god of summer. However, thoughts of her aunt remind her severely of the things she had to do just to _delay_ something as inevitable as the end of the world.

It feels too much like winning the battle but losing the war.

No, she thinks. The war’s already lost. It’s been foretold, way before even Frey is alive. It’s just a matter of _when_ it is going to happen.

Her father must have read on her face the path her thoughts have taken, for he sighs. “You’re putting too small a price on something priceless,” he tells her. “You’ve given us time, daughter. Because of you, there’s time for songs unsung to be heard. Because of you, there’s time for stories untold to be shared. Because of you, there’s time for dreams unmet to be fulfilled. You’ve extended our wait, yes. It might be for a couple of centuries, a couple of years. Maybe even a couple of days, who knows? And who cares?”

Raelle swallows, feels heat growing in her lungs, and it becomes terribly difficult to see in the light of the meadow they’re standing in. There’s something damp in her vision, but she cannot process anything past her father’s words and soothing presence.

He continues, “Each second contains multitudes of infinities, and who’s to say even one of those doesn’t matter?” He sweeps his thumbs across her cheeks, and _oh_ —she’s crying. “So don’t sell yourself short. Don’t belittle what you’ve accomplished. You’ve stretched out our minutes, and because of you, we can experience more of life, we can live through more moments, and _that_ is significant.” He smiles again, that half-smile Raelle also recognises as much as anything else about him. It speaks of connection in a world full of turmoil, an endless calm in the midst of chaos.

Raelle thinks his smile is where the Peace of Frey itself comes from, the same way Freya’s own radiance powers the whole of Folkvanger. And isn’t _that_ something?

Maybe her father is right, or maybe not. But like he said, who knows? Who cares? The future is certain but the present is not.

And the present is where she is.

So she takes a deep breath, tries to centre herself, and thinks that maybe it is time to believe in something new.

****

_“So this is what it feels to be brave.”_

_Raelle frowns, confused. “You’ve always been brave.”_

_“I haven’t, not really.” Scylla’s lips curl in a half-smile. “It’s hard to be brave when you don’t believe in anything.”_

_“And you believe in something now?”_

_And there’s something in the way Scylla looks at her that makes her simultaneously the least and most terrifying person in Raelle’s life. “Yes,” she answers simply._

_That is their first truth._

****

The first time Raelle sees _her_ , she wishes for the hotel floor to open up and whisk herself down to Ginnungagap.

Okay, in her defense, she almost gets impaled by a flaming spear.

She blinks awake to rowdy noises outside her room, and figures her hallmates on Floor 21 are just up to their usual thing, which simply means they’re probably trying to kill each other in delightfully inventive ways. Today is dragon day in their daily training to the death, something that she’s really not looking forward to, but the loud knocking on the door and repeated screams of her name let her know that her company’s owed either way.

She sighs and gets up, shrugging on her jacket before opening the door. Byron, who’s just about to knock again, doesn’t stop the motion in time and thus tumbles into a graceless heap on the floor.

“Ah, fuck!”

“Language!” Tally rebukes, but the effect is diminished for she’s nearly doubled over in laughter.

Abigail snorts, offering him a hand. “Idiot.”

“I am offended,” Byron grumbles even as he takes it, getting back on his feet, then shoots Raelle a mock glare. “Also, I hate you.”

Raelle raises her hands in a placating gesture, smirking. “Hey, I didn’t tell you to bang on my door like a bitch in heat. You did that on your own.”

“He’s been banging on more than your door for the past few weeks, let’s be real,” Abigail says, as they finally make their way to lounge 21 to have breakfast.

“Hey!”

“Try a few decades,” adds Tally, still giggling.

Byron huffs. “Well, I see you are having fun on my account.”

“You just make it so easy,” says Raelle.

“ _You’re_ easy.”

“One, _real_ mature,” notes Abigail. “And two, Raelle’s practically a prude next to you.”

Raelle winces. “Wow, I resent that.”

“Better for me to be a whore than a dried-up twig.” Byron elbows her. “Otherwise I’d be as _delightful_ as you are and this floor can’t handle _two_ Virgin Marys.”

“You’re such a heretic.”

Tally laughs. “Says the _einherji_ in the Hall of Odin.”

“I was raised a Christian, okay, that leaves a mark. Let me be.”

“Yeah, let her be,” Abigail says, an eyebrow cocked, her grin mocking. “Or she’d be spouting Scripture verses in the combat arena later.”

“Right.” Byron fakes a shudder. “That’s worse than death by dragon.”

“Personally, I rank death by Bible quotes between death by garrotte and by dismemberment,” Tally says.

“That leaves like a thousand notches in between, Tal.”

Raelle groans. “You’ve all _just_ woken me up and I’m already tired.”

Abigail clicks her tongue. “For a child of Frey, you’re really much too grouchy.”

“Yeah, so you keep saying.” Raelle rolls her eyes. “But just bec—”

She doesn’t get to the end of that sentence for just then, a commotion erupts behind them, and a flaming spear whizzes past her, merely an inch from her cheek. She’s too shocked for the heat to register, and at any rate, she’s immune to extreme temperatures anyway.

Still.

The spear embeds itself into the wall in front of her, and she stares at it blankly for a few seconds. Her friends are yelling some choice words Odin definitely wouldn’t allow before she thinks to check just what in the Helheim happened.

And.

Oh.

There’s a girl about their age—or what had been their age, when they were mortals—standing in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed. She’s beautiful—that’s the first thing Raelle thinks before cataloguing each detail in mesmerised focus. She looks like she’s carved out of the purest marble, a physical manifestation of what _beautiful_ means. Her eyes are vibrantly blue, like the deepest part of the ocean in the sunniest day of summer. The jut of her jaw is prominent, strong, and clenched with determination that lurks not far beneath her gaze.

She is much too busy staring at the girl to notice Libba, one of the Valkyries tasked with bringing souls to Valhalla, right next to her.

“What was _that_?” Abigail demands, stalking forward until she’s toe-to-toe with Libba.

“A flaming spear,” Libba points out drolly, and Abigail just growls.

“Okay,” Tally steps in, tugging at Abigail’s arm before it comes to trading blows. Given the long history between Abigail’s and Libba’s families, going way back to the dawn of the Viking explorations or something, it’s a smart choice. “Let’s all cool down.”

Abigail huffs. “She threw a spear! It was on fire! And it almost hit us!”

“Technically, just Raelle,” Byron pipes up.

Super helpful. Raelle shakes her head, finally dragging her eyes away from the girl, who’s just smirking at the argument as if it’s the most amusing thing ever. “Yeah, just me. Thanks for that.”

Libba stares at the ceiling as if willing it to grant her the final death. Raelle kinda relates to that. “I didn’t do that.” She jerks a thumb at the girl. “She did.”

The girl’s smirk deepens at their attention. There’s a captivating twinkle in her eyes, which Raelle totally does not take note of. “Hi.”

“Why were you throwing flaming spears?” Byron asks, which, granted, is a pretty valid question but it’s not the one Raelle would ask, right now.

The girl just shrugs. “Why not?”

“Ah.” Byron nods, as if that is in any way reasonable. “Cool.”

“We’re forgetting something more important,” Tally says.

“Yes,” Abigail agrees, before turning once again to Libba. “ _Why_ did you bring her here?” Again, not the question Raelle would ask, but definitely also intriguing.

Tally protests, “That’s not what I—”

“Well,” Libba says, already bored, “I would think you’re smart enough to realise she’s here because she’s gonna be your new hallmate. Otherwise I would have brought her somewhere else, wouldn’t I?”

Abigail scoffs. “Is she even worthy?” She doesn’t even spare the girl a glance, merely arching her eyebrows at Libba who frowns up at her. Raelle knows she’s not doing it to be purposely mean to the girl; she just happens to be a convenient bullet to shoot against the Valkyrie. 

For souls to be admitted to Valhalla, one should have died a valiant death. They are all warriors of Odin here, after all, who shall march with the gods come Ragnarok. For Abigail to question what the girl did to earn her entrance here is to question Libba’s judgment itself, which is something Abigail takes particular enjoyment in. It’s not the first time Libba has brought someone who turned out to be, well, a turncoat. No one’s forgotten about the Great Debacle of 1995 yet, mostly because Abigail won’t let them, to Libba’s eternal consternation.

(Raelle wasn’t even here when it happened but still she knows the fine points like the back of her hand, purely because of Abigail’s comprehensive retelling. It’s kinda nuts.)

Now, though, Libba merely grits her teeth but doesn’t rise to the bait. “You’re gonna learn about it all later in the feast hall. Which, you know, is the standard procedure. One would assume you’re the newbie here, Bellweather.”

“Why you littl—”

“What’s your name?” Raelle asks the girl instead, because no one’s making sense in this conversation. No one generally does, here in Valhalla, but it’s nice to pretend, sometimes, that they’re functional people.

The girl stares at her, and the moment their gazes meet, Raelle forgets how to breathe. It feels quite like dying and waking up alive again for the first time. Her heart’s skipping like the Nirvana CDs her stepdad used to play when they’re out on road trips, damaged because of overuse but still trudging along for that one last song. She’s pretty sure she’s going into cardiac arrest, if not for the fact that einherjar don’t get those at all.

Raelle physically has to stop herself from falling over, because _oh_ , it’s so easy to believe she’s one of the Vanir. She ignores Byron’s knowing hum and merely waits.

The girl’s smirk melts into a small smile, far more genuine than Raelle would expect but as breath-taking as the sunrise. “My name’s Scylla Ramshorn,” she finally answers. “And you are?”

Raelle’s throat feels dry. What are words? “I, uh, I’m—”

“Your future wife,” Byron says, snickering, then he pushes Raelle forward.

The girl’s eyes widen before laughing this laugh that sounds like honey trickling down Raelle’s ears, and she can’t even muster enough sense to blush even as her friends guffaw around her. “Oh, she should at least take me to dinner first.” Her eyes are dancing with mirth and Raelle wants to drown in them. “Don’t you think?”

Raelle blinks. “Survive the day and we’ll see about dinner?” Why did she say _that_?

Gods, she really _is_ a dried-up twig, isn’t she?

“You’re freaking hopeless, Freyrsdottir,” Byron says, gasping through his laughter, and Raelle vows to feed him to the dragon later, or else behead him herself.

(Of course, she’d have to remember to do that, because then Scylla laughs again, and all other thoughts leave her mind, and she’s so, so _screwed_.)

****

_This close, Raelle can see each individual fleck of Scylla’s intensely blue eyes, can even almost count her eyelashes. She can see each flaw in her sculpted face, which is to say, there is no flaw at all._

_Scylla is too beautiful, Raelle’s heart aches just looking at her._

_There hardly is any space between them, but to Raelle it feels as wide as the World Tree, heavy with questions unasked and answers unspoken. A part of Raelle wants to flee, away from the air almost crackling with something yet unnamed, but a larger, more significant part urges her to stay. And so she remains rooted to her spot, letting her gaze linger on Scylla._

_“You’re too worried about what’s to come that you forget that you belong to the infinite.” Scylla smiles, wry but fond all the same. “It’s as endearing as it is frustrating.”_

_Every beat of her heart feels too much like a ticking bomb, but Raelle can’t bring herself to care about that. “I’m not worried about me,” she says. It tastes like a confession._

_It is._

_“I know,” Scylla says. And she does. Her tone is too knowing_ not _to know. Raelle has sort of always known, anyway, that Scylla understands her way better than anyone else. “But you won’t lose me when you let go.” A challenge, maybe._

 _Or maybe Raelle just wants it to be. For whatever reason_ _—purely selfish_ _—because she’s. She’s tired. Not in the way warriors are after a quest. But she’s tired. Of a lot of things. Tired of fighting an unwinnable war. Tired of holding back._

_She remembers her dad’s words and figures if she wants to live through more moments, she has to start somewhere._

_And Scylla . . . She’s the best start Raelle can think of._

_Start somewhere._

_Start here._

_She swallows. Gathers her courage. Scylla meets her eyes, and Raelle surges to her. Scylla’s mouth is warm, pliant, and sweet, and she makes this sound that makes Raelle’s head spin, making her think that north is south is west is east and_ _—_

_Start somewhere._

_Start with her._

_Scylla is the best start and she’s also the best end, and the bomb in Raelle’s heart ticks, ticks, ticks. She’s not afraid, though. She’ll let herself explode, if that’s what Scylla wants._

_With her, every moment is significant._

****

There’s panic in Valhalla when Scylla disappears for the first time. For some reason, those weeks are the longest Raelle has experienced. She doesn’t want to dwell on why that is.

Here’s what they know, though:

She’s under orders from the All-Father himself. Odin has personally appeared on the thanes’ table to discuss how she went to Helheim and sought out the lost blades of Loki.

“She’s the only one who could have retrieved those,” he tells them, nodding at Scylla who looks as if she hasn’t done something so incomprehensibly dangerous. Raelle resists the overwhelming urge to examine her for injuries and maybe even wrap her up in a blanket and stash her away from stupid gods and stupid wars.

“Why is that?” one of the thanes asks. “Surely any of the einherjar could have achieved such a feat.”

“Well,” says the All-Father, “no.”

“No?” another thane asks, completely befuddled. Raelle cannot blame him.

The All-Father just shrugs. “After that latest catastrophe with Fenris Wolf, we’re all fresh out of Loki’s spawn.”

The hall falls silent.

The All-Father continues, “So Scylla is the only choice.”

A beat.

And then pandemonium.

****

_“You’re so beautiful,” Raelle says. It feels a little like a secret, which is just ridiculous, mostly because it’s a constant thought. It’s a constant fact, even. But it’s the first time she’s said it aloud._

_Scylla meets her gaze, and something snaps into place. Her smile is small but it’s the purest thing Raelle has ever seen. Like distilled sunshine. “I love you too,” Scylla says._

_And that’s a fact too._

****

There’s something caught in Scylla’s eyes that Raelle has never managed to name. It’s like their blues are trapped between worlds, not quite decided between dreams and nightmares. The effect is unnerving, yes, but Raelle finds that it is hauntingly charming, like the wisp of fog in early mornings, with dewdrops on leaves glinting with leftover starlight.

“Ragnarok looms over the horizon.”

“Let it come,” Raelle says. “It’s what we’ve been preparing for, isn’t it? What Valhalla is meant to face?” She waits for a witty comeback, but Scylla’s gaze is serious. Raelle feels her heart thumping loudly in her chest.

When she finally speaks, Scylla’s voice is quiet but earnest. “I wish to spend at least some more time with you, before we have to rush to our doom.”

Raelle’s eyes are burning and she’s not even sure why. “Oh,” she says. Like a poet. “How long, exactly?”

Scylla hesitates, and there’s something painfully honest about the space between her words. “As long as there’s time,” she says, and Raelle believes.

****

_“Fate is not something we’re meant to understand, I think,” Raelle says. “It just is. The best we can do is respect it and try to at least leave something worthy to be remembered, when all is said and done.”_

_“I didn’t take you for someone who believes in fate.”_

_“It’s not so much as believing as knowing.” Raelle smiles, remembers a conversation she had with her father, so long ago. Has it been a century? A decade? Or has it only been a year? Time means nothing in the hall of the fallen. “I know trying to avoid fate will most likely fail. The Norns are beyond our reach. We’re just insignificant threads of a much larger, much greater tapestry.”_

_“Does that scare you?”_

_“It used to, a lot.” Scylla’s hand in hers is sure and steady, and Raelle feels anchored in a way she hasn’t been, when she was alive. It figures that she’ll find real happiness when she’s dead. “Now I feel a little braver.”_

_Scylla grins, and Raelle remembers how air tastes like when one truly breathes._

****

“I’ll see you soon,” Raelle promises.

“You better.”

“I love you.”

Scylla stills. “You have the worst timing ever,” she groans, sounding almost aggrieved, and Raelle merely laughs as they both charge into battle.

****

— _bathe in fire, the warm glow of the hearth_

_keep the oaths spoken beneath the moon and stars_

_with dreams born from their ashes._

****

She thinks of picnics in the woods of Midgard. Of stolen kisses in Niflheim. Of fevered touches in the depths of Muspellheim. Of whispered words in the vastness of Jotunheim.

This is where she wants Scylla to remain, Raelle thinks. Here, with her, on the ground, with the Nine Worlds turning above them.

This is their world: the world of the gods and their warriors. The world doomed to fail.

She takes Scylla’s hand in hers, and together, they watch the stars shining beyond the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> me: i am going to write something  
> me: *writes this*  
> me: wait i was thinking a different one
> 
> askjdksfhjdhfjdhfjfhdjhf been rereading riordan books im emo 
> 
> i always thought the norse deities are way more badass than other pantheons. mostly because they know they are doomed, and they are racing towards the end one way or another. so everything they do? a step closer to the final death. it makes their deeds so much more incredibly poignant, their actions that much heavier than anything the greeks or the romans could achieve for those ones couldn’t possibly comprehend the notion of finality. regardless of the oaths zeus fails to keep, he’d still be the king of the gods. odin had to lose an eye to get the knowledge he wanted. there’s so much to unpack!!! 
> 
> n e ways stay hydrated folks. keep the faith!
> 
> Come yell at me or something on [Tumblr](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/agentjoannemil1)!  
> Feedback is much appreciated; feelings fuel everything! :))


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